


After the Fall

by rory_the_faery



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Johnlock - Freeform, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-30
Updated: 2013-07-29
Packaged: 2017-12-21 19:55:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/904255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rory_the_faery/pseuds/rory_the_faery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Reichenbach fanfic. Sherlock PoV. Lot's of feels. Please leave a review!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"Don't. Be. Dead. Could you do that for me? Just stop it...stop this." His eyes were full of tears as he turned away from the grave. My grave.

I want to run out of my hiding spot several yards away. I want him to see me. I don't want to have to go on living without him. But it's for the best. For his safety. I have to protect him.

I bite my lip and wipe away a few tears. Stupid tears. Damn bloody stupid tears. Stop it eyes, stop this right now. You're making me sentimental. You're making me weak. I have to be strong. Strong and clever, for my army doctor's safety. I wipe the last of the loathesome drops of water from my cheeks and turn my back on the grave. I close my eyes and inhale slowly, opening them as I exhale a quiet sigh.

I walk to a different gate than the one John just left through in case he's still nearby.

My coat isn't the same as my old coat, a bit shorter and black rather than dark grey. It's heavier and bulkier, and the buttons are on the opposite side from my old coat. The collar still turns up though, which is good for obscuring my face a bit and I bought a new scarf. It's dark-ish grey but I still have my old one with the other few belongings I've got. I'm traveling light for now until I get to Herne. It's a city in Germany near Düsseldorf. It's not too big and I'm far less likely to be recognised there than I am in London, not that people are able to recognise me without that ghastly deer-stalker anymore. I roll my eyes.

I get a cab and tell the driver to bring me to a cheap hotel room I've rented for the past few days. Today's my check-out day. I grab my case from the room and head back out. I bring my key back to the lobby.

"Thank you for staying with us Mr Smith," says the girl at the desk. Her facial expression clicks some sort of recognition. "No, no, can't be," she mutters to herself.

"What?" I ask, already knowing what she's doubting.

"Nothing, sir, you just reminded me of someone...What'd you say your first name was, again?"

"Hamish," I say, looking down at the floor so she has less opportunity to see my face. I pay in cash, which she seems to think unusual, probably because it is unusual, but she doesn't ask any more questions.

It takes me a few minutes to get a cab and it's raining. My wet hair clings to my forehead and I fumble around in my case once I get in the cab, pulling out a plane ticket. I run a hand through my wet curls and shake my head around a bit, flicking little beads of water onto the foggy window. I wipe away some of the fog and see that we're one Baker street. I stare out the window, watching the familiar buildings pass by. As we drive by 221 Baker street, I see a figure in the window. John turns away from the window just as my cab drives past it. Another tear rolls down my cheek but this time I don't protest against it. I don't even wipe it away; I just let it roll down my face, over my cheekbone. I taste the salty water droplet as it stops at the edge of my lip.

When we get to the airport, I give the cabbie a handful of cash and step back out into the rain. The tears come on again. Fortunately, they're not very noticeable in the rain. I stand out in the rain for a few minutes, smoking a cigarette. I drop it onto the ground and step on it to put it out before turning to go inside.

It's busy and crowded and uncomfortable. I wipe the rain and tears off my face, flicking beads of water onto the floor. It's all a blur of faces, looking for their terminals and parents stringing their children along. I push through the masses of people, half-dead until I somehow end up on the right aeroplane. I slump against the window, remembering the case with Irene Adler and Mycroft's flight of the dead. I smile a bit; the memory is nice anyway..

A few hours later, I'm in Düsseldorf. I find my small black case and leave, looking for a cab. The cars all speed past on the wrong side of the road and I pull out another cigarette and light it. A cloud of smoke escapes my lips with a long exhale. I close my eyes and let all of the people and sounds and smells flow around me. I'm isolated in the middle of a crowd; it's uplifting and at the same time sad.

I open my eyes and snap back into reality, putting out my cigarette.

I find a cab to take me to Herne, where I've rented a flat under the name Hamish Smith. Though somehow the landlady seems to have translated it to Hamish Scmitt even after I corrected her. The flat isn't the best and certainly isn't 221 Baker street, but there aren't any neighbours and the landlady said she would take cash.

When I arrive at the flat, I knock on the door and a large woman with blond hair and small green eyes opens the door. Nearing obesity, recently divorced judging by the tan line on her ring finger that's slightly faded. Can't have been more than two months though; the anger and contempt is still etched into her face. He must've done something bad, something to humiliate her, probably cheating on her based on her size, and overall appearance.

"Bist du Hamish Schmitt?" she asks.

"Smith," I correct her. She steps aside and nods toward the staircase, handing me a key. I walk up the steps, which are concrete, covered with stained carpeting. When I reach the top, I unlock the door and open it to a small room with burgundy walls to match the coffee table in the centre of the room and a small brown armchair beside the window. There's no television, which doesn't bother me. The hardwood floor is covered with a large white rug, stained by coffee and wine.

There's a small kitchenette which looks dirty and unused for at least five years. In fact, the whole flat appears to have been unoccupied for several years judging by the textiles used for the curtains and the worn, vacant look the entirety of the flat has. I walk though a doorway beside the armchair, noting the chipped white paint on the trim. This must be the bedroom, if you could call it that. It's a tiny room (more like a cupboard, really) with just enough space for a double bed and a small dresser with a lamp beside the bed. There aren't any sheets on the bed, which is fine because if there were I would toss them out and buy new ones anyway. In the back of the room there's another door that leads to the toilet.

I sigh and leave my case at the doorway. No sense in unpacking; there isn't anywhere I could put my belongings.

I walk back into the sitting room and look out the tall window beside the armchair. At first I think it's still raining, but then I remember I'm not in London anymore and that this is different rain. I place my hand on the window, thinking of John.

"I'm sorry, John," I whisper.


	2. Chapter 2

Time goes on. Days pass without John. Weeks, months, minutes, hours. I'm losing weight. I know I should eat but I always forget to or don't feel like it. Eating is boring. Most everything is boring now though.

I've done one or two cases but it's difficult because I don't speak fluently in German and the police aren't fluent in English. Mostly I just sit alone in my flat, reading John's blog or playing violin. The new violin isn't the same as my old one. It's almost an exact replica, but it doesn't feel the same. It feels wrong. It sounds wrong, no matter how much I tune it.

I hate this flat. I hate the emptiness, I hate the loneliness, I hate the coffee stains on the rug and most of all I hate the lack of a resident army doctor.

I punch the wall and curl onto the floor. My forearm has four nicotine patches on it. My shaking hands grasp at the air air and dig my nails into the palms of my hands. I want to scream but instead I take it out on the wall, punching and kicking and clawing at the wallpaper.

Damn him, damn Moriarty. This is his fault. He took me away from my army doctor. He burned me.

I stop thrashing and cursing him as that sets in. He did it. He got exactly what he wanted. Moriarty burned the heart out of me. He won.

I tuck my knees to my chest, holding them there with my bloody, nicotine-stained hands. I lost.

I sit there for what feels like a few moments, but really several hours. I stand and walk towards the window, looking out at the city with a vacant face. I place my hand against the cold pane of glass, letting it slide down the frost-bitten surface, streaks of foggy ice crystals still remaining where my fingertips didn't touch the glass.

I sleep tonight. I haven't slept in a few days, but I'm feeling a bit light-headed so some sleep is probably a good idea.

I lie down on the bed with an unframed photograph of John and I that I cut out of a newspaper in my hands. I stare at our two faces. How long has it been since this photo was taken? I lost track of the days a long while ago. It's all a blur…time. Funny, it feels like ages since I've seen his face and at the same time, it feels like I just left.

Some nights I wake up and think it was all just some sick dream but it isn't. It's real. I wish it weren't real. 'But wishing will get me nowhere,' I remind myself.

I allow my heavy eyelids to close, drifting off to sleep.

I dream that I'm in London. Brilliant London, how I've missed it. But something's not right. Where's John? My mobile phone rings and John's voice at the other line whispers something; "Goodbye Sherlock." I spin around, looking for him. He's there, where I was, on the hospital rooftop. "JOHN!" I scream. He falls…down, down, down, down. I run to the bottom of the building, "John!" He's lying on the pavement. His blood pools on the ground near his head. "John…no…John…" I lean over him, checking his wrists for a pulse. There is none. I grab him by the shoulders and try to shake him awake. "John! John, no, no you're not dead, stop it! You can't be! Stop this!" I say; my voice grows louder until I'm shouting his name, begging him to not be dead.

I wake up covered in sweat and shaking. I lie there, struggling to catch my breath and run my hands through my hair. "Just a dream," I whisper, trying to calm myself. But I know it's not just a dream. Not for John. For John, what I just saw was real. So terribly real. "I'm so sorry John."


	3. Chapter 3

I'm becoming more and more emotional lately. I don't like it. It's uncomfortable. It's wrong. Sherlock Holmes is not emotional. But Hamish Smith is.

I am not Hamish Smith. I am a machine, immune to emotion. I stare vacantly at the street outside my window. Tiny snowflakes spiral downward to the ground.

My eyes keep getting water in them. I wish they'd stop. I don't need water; I need John.

I worry about him. All the time. I worry he's not safe. I worry he's gotten himself into trouble. I worry that he…I shake my head. I don't like to think about that scenario.

Molly assured me she'd keep John safe. She said she wouldn't tell him my secret, but that she'd keep him from doing anything drastic. Still, I worry.

I turn away from the window and stare at the nicotine patches on my skeleton arms. I can see the bones in my hands and in my wrists. Is this what I've become? Is this all that's left of me? Skin and bones and a drug addiction? Is this what I am without my army doctor?

I bite my lip until it bleeds, tasting the sweet, sticky blood. I don't have the energy to do anything. Not physically or emotionally.

How long has it been? Three years? It feels like three decades.

There's a knock at the door downstairs. I hear the landlady open the door and talk to someone downstairs. Someone looking for Sherlock Holmes.

I close my eyes. I must be delusional. Sherlock Holmes is dead. No one should be looking for him. Especially not the person whose voice I hear at the bottom of the stairs.

With a heavy German accent she tells him she doesn't know who Sherlock Holmes is and that the only person renting a flat here is Hamish "Schmitt". He doesn't listen to her though because I hear footsteps coming up the stairs and then there's a knock on my door.

"I'm going insane," I whisper to myself. But something in me makes me open the door anyway. A short man with greying hair and tired eyes stands before me. His eyes widen and then become teary.

I step back. "I'm going insane," I whisper again. "Stop it, leave me alone!" I say louder.

"Sherlock…" he says quietly.

I run my hands through my hair. It's been dyed a lighter shade of brown and I've kept it a bit shorter and straightened it. "No, no, no," I say to myself, turning away from the hallucination. "No it's not him," I say. I press my hands against my head. "STOP IT!"

I calm myself and turn back around to see if he's still there. He's looking at me with sad eyes.

"Sherlock, it's me," says John weakly.

"That's what all of them say," I snap.

He looks wounded by my words. I stare at him inquisitively. I brush my hand against his cheek and then pull away quickly with a slight gasp.

"You…you're real…"

He glances at the nicotine patches on my arm. He looks around the room. There are drug needles on the floor near the coffee table from a few days ago. He looks up and down my frail figure, bone thin and heavy with grief.

"W-what are you doing here?" I ask shakily.

"I found out that you…that you were alive and I came looking for you." He looks at me sadly.

My eyes form tears in them and I turn my back so he can't see them, wiping them from my cheek.

"Molly told me," he continues. "She told me what happened…or what you told her anyway."

"She said she wouldn't," I mutter through gritted teeth, fighting tears. "She was supposed to keep you safe." My voice cracked.

"Safe from what?"

"Moriarty."

"But he's dead," says John. "Unless he's not - "

"No, he's dead," I say. "He was going to send people after you, though. If I didn't jump off the hospital."

"You could've told me!" says John, raising his voice. "A phone call, a text, a letter, something! Anything!" yells John. "I mourned you, Sherlock! Three damn years without you! Three years of listening to the press go mad about you! Calling you a fake! Three years of having to see a therapist twice a week! Three years of Mrs Hudson and Lestrade and Molly constantly checking up on me all the time! Did they know too? Was I the only one without a bloody damn clue, Sherlock?!"

"No," I say quietly. "Just Molly. Just so someone could look after you."

"You couldn't have told me?"

"I had to make sure you'd be safe!" My voice cracks again.

"Sherlock…" he says quietly, calming down a bit. I look up at him.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I was just…"

"I understand."

"Are you okay?" he asks with concern.

I don't answer.

There's a long pause before either of us speak again.

"Hamish," he says smiling. I smile back at him. "You've gotten awfully sentimental," he says.

"Far too much," I reply.

He steps toward me and gently lifts my forearm with the nicotine patches. "You've gotten so thin," he says sadly.

"Haven't been eating quite as much as I ought to," I say euphemistically.

"Have you eaten at all?"

"Occasionally."

He frowns.

"Tea?" I ask.

"Sure," he says. I gesture for him to sit. I walk into the kitchen and turn on the kettle. I make two cups and bring them into the sitting room. I place them on the coffee table beside my ashtray which is overflowing with ashes and cigarette butts.

"Is that the ashtray from Buckingham Palace?" asks John. I just smile and he smiles back. I sit on the floor beside the coffee table since there's only one chair.

John doesn't mention the full ashtray or the nicotine patches or the drug needles. He just looks at me with eyes filled with pity.

He looks at my laptop, which is on the coffee table as well, opened up to John's blog.

"You've been reading my blog?"

"Yes," I reply.

"I've been looking at your website. Except it's always the same. I've practically memorized every word of it." He smiles sadly.

We don't talk for a few hours, we both just stare at each other in wonder, occasionally smiling. After a few hours I offer to make him dinner.

"I can't promise it will be anything good," I warn him. "I don't exactly have a lot of food…."

"It's fine," he says.

I get up and go into the kitchen to fix him something. When I come back though, he's asleep. I smile and set the food down on the coffee table. I gaze at him for a few moments and hold his hands in my own. I stay up alone the rest of the night, playing soft lullabies on my violin.


	4. Chapter 4

The next morning, John wakes in my armchair on the living room, and I'm waiting for him in the kitchen with scrambled eggs. He walks into the small kitchen and rubs his eyes. I smile faintly at him and he smiles back. I could kiss him right now, but I'm too afraid, so we just stare at each other in wonder for several moments until I offer him a plate, breaking the trance. He smiles lightly and takes it, sitting down at the table.

"Are you going to eat?" he asks.

"No, I - "

He looks at me with disappointment.

"Well, I suppose…sure." I fix myself a plate and set it down on the table, pulling up a chair for myself. He eats and I push the food around with my fork for several minutes until he's finished his food. I dump my plate out in the garbage and put the dishes in the sink. John doesn't say anything, despite the concerned look he's giving me.

I sit back down at the table, hands shaking and light a cigarette. He watches me, a sadness etched into the lines of his face.

"So…" he begins, but his voice trails off.

I look up at him.

"Do you think you'll come back?" he asks. "To London…"

I flick the end of the cigarette against my already full ashtray. I have one in nearly every room of the house.

"I suppose I would," I say, "now that I'm not really in hiding anymore." I look around the flat, the cracks in the walls and the creaking floorboards, rusty hinges on all the doors. "God, I hate it here."

"Our old flat hasn't been rented out," John says. "We could…y'know, move back there…"

A faint smile forms on my lips. "I'd like that."

John smiles back at me.

I stand up and grab my coat.

"Where are you going?" asks John.

"London, obviously. I've got a flat to rent!" He grins at my excitement and pulls on his coat as well, following me out the door.

"But wait!" he says. "What about the landlady? Haven't you got to pay her?"

"I rented the flat under a false identity, John, she'll never see me again nor is there any way of her finding me, and quite frankly, she seems more the type to mope about it than take action."

"Well what about your belongings?"

"All replaceable…except…" I turn around and run back into the flat, grabbing the photograph of John and I out from under my pillow and fold it up in my pocket.

"What was that?" asks John as I emerge through the front door.

"Oh nothing…just a photograph I wanted to keep."

John gives me a funny look, knowing I'm not a very sentimental person and asks what the photo was of. Knowing he'll continue to ask if I don't tell him, I pull the folded paper from my pocket and show him the photo of us from the newspaper I'd kept.

He smiles and then hugs me, which I am surprised by. Initially I stiffen, not used to physical contact but then I hug him back. He smiles at me and we hail a cab to take us to the airport.


End file.
